


About an Hour Later

by Megg33k



Series: Working Out the Kinks [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Blow Jobs, IDEFK anymore, Irrumation, Light Bondage, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1281625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This piece is the event referenced in "All Nice Detectives Like a Soldier." The kitchen floor is a great place for spontaneous sex, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	About an Hour Later

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Everyone who asked what happened](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Everyone+who+asked+what+happened).



> WARNING: This is NOT meant to show proper BDSM practices. This is NOT meant to follow safe, sane, and consensual rules. Though, it *is* absolutely and entirely consensual. This is simply how I see my boys 'playing,' regardless of how improper their practices are. If that isn't something you're okay with reading, please stop now.

About an hour later…

I was in the kitchen, rifling around for a snack, when I heard Sherlock enter behind me. He didn’t speak. He simply set a roll of duct tape on the counter and waited a few moments so I could object if I so desired. Since the very sight of it made me hard all over again, I didn’t even consider saying no.

“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “Yeah, good.” I tried to sound nonchalant despite my pulse already pounding in my ears. That would be all he needed. Thirty seconds later, my pants, trousers, and most of my shirt buttons were pooled and scattered at my feet.

He shoved me to the floor hard enough to make my knees ache and bound my wrists rather tightly behind my back before briefly retreating to the parlour. I was cold and exposed, but I suppose that was the point. When he returned, he was holding a multitude of items that made my cock ache.

After kicking my ankles apart, he strapped a cuff to each and then padlocked a spreader bar between them. It wasn’t extended far enough to be painful, but my thigh muscles would be twitching sooner rather than later. Then the cold steel of a ring gag was placed against my face and behind my teeth, and I whimpered in spite of myself. Lastly, he pressed a small pocket knife into one of my palms and the keys to the padlocks into the other before slowly stepping away.

“I’m going to disrobe very slowly now. You have ninety seconds to free yourself before I begin using you in whatever way I see fit.” He picked up a stopwatch that beeped several times as he pressed the buttons on its face. “Your time starts—” He pressed one final button and dropped it to the floor in front of me. “—now .”

My eyes darted back and forth between the numbers quietly counting down and the pale, lithe body slowly being revealed before me. I grunted, twisting the knife so that I could easily cut the tape if I wanted out. And I could have without much effort at all. I chose not to, though.

Instead, I watched the seconds tick away. I watched nimble fingers carefully unbuttoning a shirt. I watched his cock—already at half-mast with flushed glans just starting to peek out from its foreskin—emerge eagerly into view. I could think of little else but what he’d do with me first, and the wet warmth of saliva was already cooling on my thigh before I even realised I was drooling. I moved to wipe it away only to be irrefutably reminded that I was still bound. And, the harder I struggled against the tape, the harder I got. Dear god, ninety seconds had never felt so incomprehensibly long.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The alarm sounded like a reprieve.

“Time’s up, and the good little soldier is still helpless.” The condescension in his tone was enough to make my blood pressure spike. “Looks like it’s my turn to have a little fun.”

He approached cautiously, his dick waggling in front of my face like a taunt. My scalp stung as he grabbed me by the hair and jerked roughly upward to straighten my posture. Slowly and carefully, he threaded his erection through the ring and then shoved it so far down my throat I nearly gagged.

Back in the day, we’d done this so many times that he knew within a micrometer how deep he could go without causing me to vomit. I must say, I was relieved to know he hadn’t forgotten. Nothing ruins a good irrumation quite like a puddle of sick. But I digress… where was I?

Yes, right… cock shoved down my throat. It may not sound glorious, but it was. I did what I could with the limited oral dexterity at my disposal, but I mostly just swallowed as hard and as often as possible so I could feel my throat tighten around him. Trust, the noises he made were thanks enough.

After pulling out, he removed the gag and invaded my abused mouth with his tongue before shoving my face to the floor. My cheek would be red for most of the night, but it wouldn’t bruise. He was good with that sort of thing, and I hated how much it turned me on to know he could do all of this without leaving any publicly visible evidence.

The next item he plucked off the table was new. A small, silver bullet vibrator attached to a corded remote. He rolled it back and forth between his hands a few times, snagged a bottle of lube, and moved behind me. I couldn’t see him anymore, but I could feel the heat radiating off of his body. He always ran hot, especially during sex.

The floor under me trembled slightly when he dropped to his knees at my back. Gentle buzzing told me the vibrator had been turned on, but it sounded rather far away still. Then he moaned. Oh, god… he—he was using it on _himself_.

I struggled to reposition my head so as to look through the gap between my legs, but I didn’t see much more than cabinets and my own cock. I’m not sure I’ve ever complained about it being in my way before, but this time it definitely was. And it certainly wasn’t doing anything to prove its use yet. Unless this blasted throbbing was more useful than I realised.

A palm pressed against with my back, followed closely by the bite of fingernails. One hand’s worth—his left—dug in and dragged down my spine as his cries got louder.

“Oh, god. I may finish without you and leave you here… just like this. Go on holiday and wait for someone to find you.” Another moan.

“Sherlock—” I croaked out through an overly dry throat. “If you do that, I will _literally_ —”

“Literally, what?” he asked, reaching between my legs to run the tip of a finger down the underside of my utterly neglected dick.

I shuddered. “N-nothing.”

“That’s right. Nothing. Because there’s nothing you _could_ do. You’re helpless and pathetic and at my mercy.”

The way he purred the last word made me twitch. Then the buzzing stopped and, judging by the muffled grunts coming from behind me, he sucked it into his mouth. It didn’t start to buzz again until the split second before he pressed it to my perineum. I’m not sure what word to use for the strangled noise I almost, sort of half-made, but it certainly wasn’t one I was familiar with.

He slid it slowly from my bollocks to my arsehole before turning it off and pulling it away to briefly lap at my entrance. His tongue was so soft and wet and hot compared to the cool metal, but they soon swapped places. He didn’t hesitate as he pressed the first centimeter or so inside me and flipped it back on. It was maddening to have no friction anywhere, the lowest possible vibration just centimeters from my prostate, and him chuckling sadistically while watching me squirm. I fucking hated him sometimes. Especially when he knew me too well—well enough to know this was exactly what I wanted from him.

None of that was the worst of it, though. Not even close. The worst was him touching me. Randomly. _Extraneously._ There was nothing sexual about it. He wasn’t even focusing on erogenous zones—and, yes, he definitely knew the difference. The back of my calves. My strained biceps. Behind my knees. He just… kept touching me. All of my nerve endings were on fire, and he was taking full advantage. That… that’s why I really hated him.

The next time he moved the vibe, he only took it away long enough to lube it up and pop all the way inside of me. It was small enough to go in smoothly but just large enough to cause a gentle burning as I stretched to take it. I cried out. Some unintelligible string of syllables. I intended them to be curse words, but they didn’t quite form properly.

He crawled in front of me on all fours and sat back on his heels. I tried to raise my head enough to look at him, but I was already half-exhausted. I winced as he helped by lifting my head via my hair again.

“Suck it,” he growled, thrusting his dick at my face. “I’m tired of doing all the work. You’re _lazy_.”

Did I mention how much I hated him? Because I did. Almost as much as I loved having his cock in my mouth.

He propped himself up with one arm behind him, his spine arched and his head thrown back dramatically. I knew I was doing well based on how hard and fast the vibe up my arse buzzed. See, he knew he could turn it up as much as he liked, because I couldn’t get off that way. Never had and likely never would. I wished I could for once… just to prove a point… but then our little game would be over, and there would be no fun in that. This wasn’t about the orgasm. I managed those alone anytime I felt the need. This was about the journey, and I really fucking hated him for this one.

I did the best I could with my limited energy, making sure to ‘accidentally’ scrape him a bit whenever he seemed to be enjoying it too much. I didn’t even care that it was often met with a rather abrupt and painful tug of my hair. In fact, that’s mostly why I did it. Hearing him lament the mild discomfort was simply a bonus.

His low rumbles of praise reverberated through his entire body. I swallowed and hummed around his cock and felt it start to pulse against my tongue. He was close, which could only mean one thing…

“Stop,” he said, standing and moving just out of my reach, and a single syllable had never sounded so cold and emotionless.

I lunged forward, gasping for him, and—with my hands still firmly secured at the base of my spine—nearly fell flat on my face. I don’t know which was more likely to break, my dick or my nose, but neither would be much fun to explain. And, when it came to blood play, I preferred something a touch more measured than ‘gushing.’ Luckily for me, he cared enough to catch me by my shoulders so as to avoid the whole messy situation.

I buried my forehead against his hip, panting from the brief adrenaline spike and desperate for so much more than he was currently offering. “Please, Sherlock.” I didn’t care how pathetic I sounded or even that I was begging. “It’s not enough. Please?”

He peeled my face from his hip and stepped back away from me. Staring. Scrutinising. “You’ll have to work for it. Prove you’re worth by getting out of those restraints. Then I’ll _consider_ getting you off.”

The pocket knife was positioned nearly perfectly when the vibe in my arse went into overdrive. It buzzed so hard I thought my teeth might chatter out of my head, and I nearly lost my grip on the knife. I sliced through the tape without too much trouble, a chorus of my own incessant whining serving as background music.

Pain shot through my shoulders as I rotated them at the cuff. Though briefly, I considered ripping the vibe out of myself just to alleviate some of my frustration, but that wasn’t how our game worked. He wouldn’t be upset with me, mind you, but _I_ certainly would. Who wants to ruin their own party?

So, I reached for the bar. I could have gotten the cuffs loose, but he’d given me the keys. Obviously, he wanted me to use them. Threading a key into a keyhole with shaky hands attached to aching arms was hard, though. Which, I suppose, was why he wanted me to do it. I used the wrong key on the right lock the first time and just almost threw the keys across the room out of aggravation. I could only image what Sherlock would do that with that opportunity, though. And, after giving those imaginings proper consideration, I thought better of the idea and did it anyway.

The keys clinked as they skittered across the floor until Sherlock stopped them with his foot. He leaned to pick them up and chided me, “Ungrateful _brat_. Is this how you thank me for my kindness?”

“I’m sorry,” I lied.

“Stand.”

The floor was cool against my palms, and I paused to take a deep breath before even trying to get to my feet. When I managed to make myself upright, the now-gentler buzzing in my arse—which had become something of background noise—sang loudly once again as the angle of the vibe changed. My knees betrayed me with a rather violent wobble, and I mentally braced myself to hit the ground. The dissonant warmth and comfort of Sherlock’s arms catching me was what I might call a pleasant surprise.

He carefully lowered me to the floor and onto my back then knelt at my feet. Without a sound, he grabbed something from the tabled and then reached for the bar he’d cuffed to me, but instead of removing it, he widened it. I cried out as my ankles and, by extension, my thighs were forced further apart, but he still barely even glanced in my direction.

He finally turned the vibe off and removed it before lifting my legs via the bar. Once they were directly above my stomach, he dropped back to the floor, wriggled under the bar, and popped through the space between my legs. He hovered. The look in his eyes was nothing short of predatory, and I was desperate to be his prey.

I couldn’t see what his hands were doing, but I could hear the crinkle of a foil packet being ripped open. The faint click of the lube cap. The undeniable sound of him slicking himself, accompanied by a barrage of overemphasised  moans. The wait was awful. I’d wanted the vibe out, but I needed something in its place. I needed more, and he wasn’t giving it to me quickly enough.

He squeezed his arms back through and caged my head between them. The gentle sway of his hips allowed him to brush the length of his cock across my entrance over and over again. I wanted to scream, to plead for him to just fuck me already, but I still had some self-respect left. Also, he would only go slower if I did. Not a risk I was willing to take. Besides, he knew. So, I bit my lip and tried to blink back the tears burning at the corners of my eyes.

When the swaying stopped, so did the incessant, not-even-close-to-enough-friction he’d been subjecting me to. He stroked my cheek with his thumb and kissed me, all in a way that suddenly made me feel insurmountably rawer and more exposed, which was no easy task given my situation. I kissed back with a need I wasn’t accustomed to feeling. I heard a whimper enter the infinitesimally small space between our mouths, but I couldn’t even be sure which of us made it. Maybe both in unison. It was hard to tell.

 He caught my bottom lip between his teeth and pinched it when he finally pressed inside me. I sucked in a harsh breath as my muscles stretched and burned, but it was quickly followed by the satisfaction that came only with the fullness of his cock—buried to its hilt—in my arse. My next cry was broken and dripping with relief.

At first, he didn’t move. At all. Maybe he was allowing me to adjust to the penetration. Maybe he knew it was maddening to feel so much potential energy just waiting to become kinetic. Maybe he simply wanted to hear me beg.

“F-fuck me, Sherlock. Please? I need to feel you move.” I sounded as desperate as I could, which wasn’t all that difficult right then.

The grin that curled on his lips and the first snap of his hips told me I’d made the right decision.

I used what little leverage I had to grind against him each time he bucked into me. The sounds spilling from my throat and lips were downright pornographic, but they didn’t matter. I’d already divorced myself from them. I’d long since given up trying to be quiet, so I just… let them happen. It was so much easier than trying to bite them back at a time such as that.

Everything between my legs ached. My prostate was moving toward overstimulated, and he’d yet to even lay a hand on my dick. Why couldn’t I just get off like that? It would hardly be revolutionary. This time, I was actually ready. Really, _really_ ready. If I didn’t get release soon, I worried I might actually explode.

And, like the mind-reader Sherlock often seems to be, he slammed into me one last, intense time and settled his weight on top of me. My cock was instantly trapped between our bodies, finally providing me with the skin-to-skin contact I so fiercely needed. As much as he drove me insane, he was occasionally a god-send.

He leaned close to my ear and nipped at my earlobe, hips still jerking in time. I whimpered, and he began to speak:

“You don’t do this because you’re pathetic. You don’t even do it because you like the feeling of losing control. You do it because you’re bored. You’re every bit as bored as I am, and _this_ isn’t boring. You’re not cut out for the domestic life, the one you envision with Mary. If you were, you wouldn’t be here right now… like this… with me, but you’ll marry her anyway. You too greatly enjoy pretending you’re heterosexual to do anything else.

“You tell yourself that I’m the only man who could make you feel this way and, furthermore, your attraction to me is more about _who_ I am than _what_ I am. That’s not quite true, though. You salivate at the mere sight of an erection, and I could accurately hypothesise that said erection needn’t actually belong to me.

“You‘re proclivity for scenarios such as this one comes from your desire to punish yourself for your latent, repressed bisexuality. I’m a safe choice, because you trust me. You also know I won’t force you to deal with the feelings you aren’t yet ready to confront, because I don’t see the need. I don’t require grand gestures of affection or proclamations of undying love.  I’m happy to let you marry your fiancé and still get off with me when the urges begin to overwhelm you.

“You believe Mary knows about this—about us—and you’re relieved that she doesn’t seem to mind, which is true enough. She doesn’t mind because she’s smart enough to realise that she can’t ever provide you quite what I can, nor does she wish to. She believes that allowing you this indulgence will more effectively ensure a happy marriage than trying to stop it would. And she’s right.

“Your mind is racing right now, but it needn’t be. This mutual understanding of circumstances is the last we’ll need to speak of such things. When this is over, you’ll let yourself continue to believe that this is all more dangerous or risky than it really is, because that’s what you like, and Mary and I will let you believe it, too. This reminds you of the war—the one you still miss to this day—and Mary and I both know this is your new battlefield, where I am both enemy and ally. Enemy because I make myself the source of all your frustration, all of your dissatisfaction, all of your _suffering_. Ally because I know how hard and fast you orgasm when I—”

He plunged his tongue into the mass of scar tissue on my shoulder, sealed his lips around it and sucked. With the slightest alteration to the angle of his hips and just a few more short thrusts—our sweat-slicked skin providing just enough lubrication and friction—I came screaming. The heat of my release shot between us for what felt like hours. My body was wracked with one convulsion after another as the feeling washed over me. And, fuckin’ Christ, that was definitely what kept me coming back.

I opened my eyes—which I hadn’t even realised I’d closed until that moment—just in time to see Sherlock’s lids droop and his jaw go slack. He panted through his orgasm, impossibly silently—so much so that I might not have even known he’d finished if not for the erraticism of his movements and the way he slumped against me.

Once he and I were uncuffed and extracted—respectively, but not in that order—he collapsed onto the floor next to me. His arm was limp when I raised it to duck underneath; his body always went so lax and pliable right after. My head rested on his shoulder as our heart rates finally started to slow.

“About what you said,” I huffed, “it’s—”

“Forget about it. I was merely riling you up.”

“You weren’t, though, were you?”

“John, I—”

“You should know you were wrong. I’m not repressing—”

“It’s fine, John. It doesn’t matt—”

“If you’d let me finish, you’d know I’m not repressing anything, because you’re not even the first man I was with.”

Sherlock hadn’t expected my admission, which was obvious from his expression alone.

“It was back in my Army days. His name was Sholto.” I cleared my throat. “Major Sholto. My commanding officer.”

“You mean, you… and he…” Sherlock stammered.

“Yeah, for a bit. Then I got shot, was invalided home, and his career… after, I mean… it, well…” I choked back the emotion threatening to seep into my voice. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just say life hasn’t been kind to him. We’re no longer in contact, not much anyway. I’ve not seen him in years.”

“So, you’ve known all along?”

“You got some of it right, though. I do believe what I feel for you is more directly related to who you are than what you are. You being a man isn’t what makes you exceptional to me, it’s the kind of man you are that’s always gotten to me. As the kind of man who doesn’t require grand gestures or romantic proclamations, you make me more inclined to want to make them. I want you to know that I—”

“Stop. Please.”

“Sorry?”

“You can’t. Rather, _I_ can’t. Because, if I were to hear whatever you were about to say, I wouldn’t be able to sit idly by and watch you marry Mary. I’d be forced to admit that your feelings are reciprocated, and I’d become wholly unable to share you. So, please, if you care for me as much as I suspect you may, just… don’t. Trust that I know, and don’t make me hear it spoken aloud. Allow me the pretense of ignorance so that we might keep up the arrangement set before us. I can’t be responsible for what would happen if… if we—”

“Okay.” I pressed a kiss to his lips to quiet him, to calm him. “I’ll trust you to know.”

He nodded and kissed me back. “I’ll trust you to know, too.”

And there it was. ‘I’ll trust you to know’ instantly became the way Sherlock and I _didn’t_ say ‘I love you,’ and for whatever reason, I thought it was beautiful. Almost as beautiful as him. _Almost._

**Author's Note:**

> After several comments akin to 'what happened about an hour later?'... this is it! That's what happened. Comments, as always, are encouraged and appreciated. 
> 
> However, if the comments are in regards to the BDSM practices employed, please see the A/N at the beginning and refrain. This was NOT meant to showcase proper BDSM rules. I apologise if this upset you in any way, but you were warned in the very beginning.
> 
> Also, I'm still working without a beta (because I'm an impatient jackass)... so, there could be mistakes I missed. Apologies in advance.
> 
> Thanks to all who read my work. I appreciate the support more than you know. I love you all! ♥


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